by Ava Collins
“How’s Big Slim involved?”
“He’s like an independent contractor. Works with the different families. He helps move and store product. He stays neutral. Reports what happens on the street. The families leave him alone.
“So, you’re saying Giovanni put a hit on both of us?” I asked.
“You catch on quick.”
I gulped. Even though it was cold, I was starting to sweat. Giovanni was going to send assassin after assassin until the job was done.
“Why did you steal the jewelry?”
“I have a little problem with theft, okay? I see something I want, I take it. Sue me.”
“So, who killed Mrs. DuMond?”
“I’m not telling,” he said. “Not until somebody can guarantee me protection.”
“I can’t protect anybody.”
“Not you, silly. Your cop buddy. You’re tight with Gibbs. You can get me protection.”
“I can try.”
“Nobody else but Gibbs. Too many weasels.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you stupid? The department is thick with cops on the take. I’m not handing myself over to just anyone. And Gibbs won’t take me without you.”
“Why?”
“Just set it up. You broker the deal. I want complete immunity. For everything I’ve ever done. In exchange, I’ll give them enough information to take down the entire Giovanni family.”
CHAPTER 26
GIBBS WASN’T TOO happy to hear from me. I think I woke him out of a sound sleep. But the thought of taking down the mob intrigued him enough to meet us at a waterfront warehouse.
The dock was lined with thousands of shipping containers. Giant cranes towered over head. A mammoth cargo ship was moored to the dock. The ropes tying it down were thicker than tree trunks. I sat on the loading dock, waiting for Gibbs to arrive. Stryker was hiding somewhere.
Gibbs pulled into the entrance and paused. He took a moment to scope things out, then drove closer. Headlights flashed across my face as Gibbs pulled up to me.
“Where’s the rat?” Gibbs asked, as he stepped from the car.
“He won’t come out until he’s sure you’re alone.”
Gibbs spun around, scoping out the scene. Stryker could have been anywhere. Gibbs shrugged exaggeratedly as if to say: I’m here. I’m alone.
But Stryker didn’t show.
“Maybe he got cold feet,” Gibbs said.
After another moment, Stryker emerged from behind a row of containers.
Gibbs drew his weapon. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Gibbs shouted.
“You’re here to help, remember?” I said.
Stryker held his hands high and approached slowly. As he drew near, Gibbs recognized the man’s face.
“Oh, no. No way this lowlife gets a deal.” Gibbs’s face turned red. His veins were popping out. He was almost frothing at the mouth, like a rabid dog. “I should put a bullet in you right here.”
“You’d be throwing away a hell of an opportunity,” Stryker said. “Plus, you know what they do to cops on the inside.”
“Did I miss something?” I asked.
Gibbs’s finger was wrapped tight around the trigger. Sweat was beading off his forehead, despite the cold night air. “This is Flaming Freddy Stryker.”
A thin smile curled up on Stryker’s face. He was enjoying his little moment of infamy. Then Freddy added, “Sometimes also referred to as Five Finger Freddy. But I prefer Flaming.”
“He’s one of the mob’s most accomplished hitmen. He’s killed over a hundred people. But we’ve never been able to pin anything on him,” Gibbs said.
“Tell her why I’ve got the nickname,” Stryker said.
Gibbs sneered. “He likes to douse his victims in kerosene and set them on fire.” Gibbs was so mad, he was shaking. “That’s how he killed my brother.”
It was a tense moment. The barrel of Gibbs’s gun was pointing straight at Stryker’s head. The hammer cocked back. Gibbs’s finger wrapped tight around the trigger. For an instant, I thought Gibbs was really going to shoot him.
Gibbs finally backed off.
“She told you what I want, right?” Stryker said. “Full immunity. For everything.”
Gibbs gritted his teeth. He looked like his head was going to burst. Then Gibbs took a deep breath and finally nodded.
“You’re the only guy that I’m absolutely sure is not on the take,” Stryker said.
“I know. I’ve made arrangements with the feds. Two agents are going to take you into protective custody,” Gibbs said.
“And you haven’t told anyone else in your department about this?” Stryker asked.
“No,” Gibbs said. He knew there was rampant corruption within the department. “I want everything you’ve got. I want names of officers on the payroll. I want the complete organizational structure for the Giovanni family. I want all known businesses and associates.”
“I’ll do you one better,” said Stryker. “I’ve got recorded conversations of every hit I’ve ever been asked to do.” He smiled. “And I’ve worked for a lot of families. There’s enough in those audio recordings to put away the entire mob. I figured one day I’d need an insurance policy.”
“You got that with you?” Gibbs asked.
“Do I look stupid?” Stryker asked.
“I don’t think you want me to answer that,” Gibbs snarked.
“Hey, I can change my mind at any time,” said Stryker.
“Okay. Go ahead. Take your chances out there,” Gibbs said.
Stryker was silent. He knew his chances of survival on the street weren’t good.
“That’s what I thought,” Gibbs said.
With the amount of evidence Stryker had on the mob, they weren’t going to let him live. It wasn’t about taking down a stolen art ring. That was just a small portion of the mob’s business. The whole organization was going to go down. And these mafia bosses were going to spend the rest of their lives behind bars.
“This is a one time offer, and you come with me right now,” Gibbs said. “All you can take is what you’ve got. No stopping by your place. No picking up things from the store.”
Stryker nodded. “Believe me, I ain’t setting foot in my old apartment.”
We hopped into Gibbs’s car and drove to another seedy warehouse to meet the feds. Two muscular guys in suits, with buzz cuts and mirrored shades. They looked like football players.
“Detective Gibbs, I’m Special Agent Parker, FBI.” He motioned to his partner. “This is Special Agent Troy.” They flashed their credentials.
“Good to meet you.” Gibbs shook hands with the two agents.
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute? You’ve never met these two?” Stryker asked, panicked.
“Mr. Stryker, I can assure you, you’re in good hands,” Parker said. “We’ve had over 8500 witnesses in the program, and never lost a single one.”
“Well, lets not screw up that perfect record.” Stryker seemed to calm down.
“Mr. Stryker, we provide 24 hour protection while you are in a high-threat situation. We also provide financial support to cover basic necessities—food, housing, medical. We can even provide job training.”
“Maybe you can train me how to be a fed. I’m pretty handy with a gun.” Stryker chuckled.
“I’m sure we can help you find employment that is suitable to your skills,” Parker said.
“With my luck, they’re gonna have me sacking groceries.” Stryker huffed. “That’s okay. I got plenty of cash stashed. That’s part of the deal, right? I get to keep all of my illicit earnings?”
“Detective Gibbs filled me in on your conditions. Tentatively, we are prepared to honor your requests,” Parker said. “Provided, of course, you follow through with your testimony.”
“Don’t worry,” Stryker said. “I’ll rat these guys out.”
“Deputy Troy and I will take you to the safe house. We’ll have some paperwork for you to sign, and we can get you proce
ssed into the system.”
Stryker looked at me and smiled. “Well, I guess this is goodbye.” We shook hands. “You watch yourself now.”
“I will,” I said.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii. I’ll send a post card,” Stryker said.
“No, you won’t,” said Parker. “You’ll have no contact with your old life. And you won’t be going to Hawaii.”
“These guys are a buzz kill,” Stryker said. “Detective Gibbs, always a pleasure.” He extended his hand.
Gibbs didn’t take it. He just glared at Stryker. “I hope you live long enough to testify.”
“So do I, Detective Gibbs. So do I,” said Stryker.
I cleared my throat. “You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”
Stryker looked at me, perplexed.
“Who killed Mrs. DuMond?”
“When these guys get me to a safe house. Then I’ll talk,” Stryker said.
Gibbs rolled his eyes.
We left and headed back toward the DuMond. Something was bothering me since the moment we met the Special Agents. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. We drove a few miles down the road, then it hit me. Special Agent. That was the problem.
“Go back,” I shouted.
“What?” Gibbs asked.
“Turnaround. Now. We have to go back.”
“What for?”
“Because the FBI doesn’t administer the Witness Security Program. The US Marshals Service does,” I said.
Gibbs smashed the brake pedal and turned the wheel. Tires screeched across the asphalt. The car swung a one-eighty. Then Gibbs mashed the accelerator, smoking the tires. We raced back to the warehouse. I had this sinking feeling that we had just handed Stryker over to the mob.
When we arrived back at the warehouse, the fake FBI agents were nowhere to be found. But it didn’t take long to find Stryker. He was face down on the gritty warehouse floor with two slugs in the back of his skull. He wasn’t going to be testifying against anyone anytime soon.
Gibbs and I hovered over his body.
“Freeze! US Marshals Service. Drop the weapon. Put your hands in the air.” Two Deputy Marshals stormed in on us, weapons drawn. They were twitchy.
We moved slowly. Gibbs explained who we were. Once the Marshals saw his badge they calmed down. We gave them a description of the fake agents, and tried to figure out how this happened.
Gibbs felt responsible. As much as he didn’t like Stryker, he liked the mob even less. Any hope of bringing the organization down was gone.
Gibbs had called his buddy at the Bureau. Special Agent Freeman. A guy he trusted. Agent Freeman had contacted the US Marshals Service and set up the meeting. There were a number of possible scenarios to explain how the mob got tipped off.
Someone in the communication chain could be corrupt. Perhaps someone in Agent Freeman’s office. Perhaps agent Freeman himself. Though, that seemed unlikely, as it would call his credibility into suspicion. For that matter, Detective Gibbs could be on the take. But I just didn’t get that vibe from Gibbs.
The mob was somehow monitoring the communications of law enforcement. Either tapping Gibbs’s cell phone, or the entire department. Maybe even the FBI. It would take help from the inside to do that.
Gibbs tried to maintain a cool exterior, but I could see that he was unnerved. If internal communications were compromised, nothing was safe. No one could be trusted.
We headed back to the DuMond. Gibbs escorted me up to my apartment. We stepped off the elevator and turned down the hall. Gibbs froze in his tracks. His face turned pale.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Gibbs drew his gun. “There’s supposed to be a guard posted at your door.”
My heart raced, and my face flushed. We crept to the front door. It was unlocked. Gibbs pushed the door open.
“Mom, are you home?” I called out.
No response. The television was on, and a morning show droned on about the latest celebrity gossip. It was the only sound in the house.
Gibbs eased down the hallway. I followed behind him. Newport rounded the corner, startling Gibbs.
Newport ran to my ankles. He looked up at me with sad, terrified eyes. I could read his thoughts.
“They took her,” I said.
“What?”
“They’ve kidnapped Mom.” My eyes filled with tears.
“Maybe she stepped out for a minute,” said Gibbs, hopeful.
I shook my head, sobbing. “She’s gone.”
“We’ll get her back,” Gibbs said, trying to comfort me.
“You and I both know the odds in these types of situations.”
My phone rang from an unknown caller. I answered and put the call on speaker. A man’s voice crackled out. “We know Stryker gave you the audio recordings. Hand them over and your mom won’t suffer a horrible death. You got 24 hours.” Then he hung up.
CHAPTER 27
MY KNEES WENT weak, and I almost collapsed. I had to sit down on the couch and pull myself together. I was a basket case.
“Did Stryker give you the audio recordings,” Gibbs asked.
“No. I don’t have them,” I said. “The first time I learned about the recordings was when you did.” My head fell into my hands in despair. “What am I going to do? They are going to kill Mom.”
“Just calm down. Take a few deep breaths.”
“I’m calm.”
“You don’t look calm.”
“We need to go to Stryker’s apartment,” I said.
“No, it’s too dangerous. I’ll send some officers over there.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you really think you can trust anyone in the department?” I said, with biting sarcasm.
Gibbs frowned and shook his head. “You’re not going over there.”
“I’m not staying here.”
Gibbs got the last known address of Stryker and we headed over. I was beginning to get worried about Bancroft. I know it sounds weird to worry about someone who is already dead. But bad things can happen to spirits too. I hadn’t seen him in quite a while. Newport hadn’t seen him either. I reassured myself that Banksy was okay, and that I was just being paranoid. Then again, I had plenty of reasons to be paranoid.
Stryker lived in a luxury high-rise. I guess being a hitman for the mob pays pretty well. The lobby was opulent. Marble floors and elegant decor. We were greeted by a doorman as we entered. He looked like he had been the doorman forever.
“Good morning,” the doorman said. “Who are you visiting.”
Gibbs flashed his badge. “Mr. Stryker.”
“Oh, dear. I hope nothing’s wrong,” the doorman said. He seemed genuinely concerned.
“No, not at all. Just a routine investigation,” I said.
Gibbs gave me a sideways glance.
“The penthouse suite. My name’s Rigby, if I can be of any further assistance.”
We took the elevator up to the top floor. Then strode down the long hallway to Stryker’s apartment. His door was ajar. Gibbs drew his weapon and cautiously pushed open the door. The sprawling apartment had been turned upside down. Furniture was toppled over. Seat cushions torn apart. Every nook and cranny had been rummaged through.
We crept into the living room. Gibbs cleared the corners with something less than textbook precision. He looked clunky and awkward. Not to mention, a little nervous. I don’t think Gibbs had to do this type of thing often. He seemed like the kind of guy who was always in the rear, letting the tactical assault teams lead the way. He told me to stay put as he cleared the rest of the apartment.
I stood in the living room. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city. The view was stunning and expensive. Stryker had surprisingly good taste for a hitman. The apartment had a modern, minimalist feel. It was the kind of place you’d see featured in a design magazine. Only now, it was torn to shreds.
Gibbs returned in a few moments and signaled that all was clear. I strolled through the apartment,
surveying the destruction. Picture frames were smashed. Shards of glass lined the floor, crackling under my footsteps.
In the bedroom, there was more disarray. The sheets were ripped from the bed. The mattress dangled halfway off the box spring. It had been sliced up the side and searched. It seemed that no stone was left unturned in Stryker’s apartment. Yet they had come up empty-handed.
In the nightstand, by the bed, there was a 9 mm semi-automatic handgun. I picked it up.
“Be careful with that,” Gibbs said, nervously. I don’t think he was too fond of me handling a loaded weapon.
The gun instantly gave me a chill. I got goosebumps and my spine tingled. Never before had I felt such psychic energy from an object. And it wasn’t good energy. It was horrific. I sensed all of the death and destruction, pain and suffering, this weapon had caused. I wanted to set it down as soon as possible, but I knew this gun would be the key.
I pushed the release and dropped the magazine into my hand. It was loaded with seventeen hollow-point rounds. I set the gun back in the drawer. Then scooped a round from the magazine into my palm.
“What are you doing?” Gibbs asked.
“Finding the audio recordings.”
Gibbs’s face crinkled up, perplexed.
“Do you believe in the supernatural?” I asked.
“You mean, like ghosts and stuff?”
“Yeah. Ghosts and stuff.”
“I don’t believe in any of that hocus-pocus nonsense,” Gibbs said.
“What if I told you it wasn’t nonsense.”
“I’d think you’d need your head examined.” Gibbs folded his arms and furrowed his brow.
“Go ahead. Be a skeptic. But I’m going to prove to you magic exists.”
Gibbs sighed. “This ought to be interesting.”
I grabbed some lipstick from my purse and drew a triangle on the floor.
“You’re not planning on sacrificing a chicken, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I need you to take this seriously, or it’s not going to work.” I pulled three small candles from my person put them on each corner. A good which always travels with candles, gemstones, and herbs. You never know when a situation might call for a little incantation.
